It is a time of primroses and tadpoles.

The ice of winter cracks and melts.

Life bubbles through the water of the mere

and skeletons of trees smudge into green.

It is a time of life made new.

The shadow of January’s cloud is fading

and wrens are building in the ivy once again.

Sometimes the warmth of spring melts me like butter,

but still there’s frost upon the ground.

The blackbird’s cadence slips surreptitiously

between the leaves of sadness,

but I am still the empty chalice on spring’s altar.

*   *   *   *   *   *    *

Barefoot on cool damp grass is bliss!

Between my naked toes it tickles,

the water droplets sprinkle on my skin.

Elusive memory!

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

“Could that be the aurora borealis in the sky?”

A gently revolving cone of purple light

unfurls like folds in a soft dull curtain.

“Surely we’re too far south for that?”

But it was there, for us.

Standing in the night-time garden

we hear the snails munching

and chickens grumbling in their shuffly sleep.

And something, somewhere, screeches

in this country darkness.

If we'd but known how little time we had -

to marvel at such secret intimacies!